“You seem to have a good deal to say about it all,” Mr. Warrener observed.
Calladine was silent; he felt rebuked.
“I have been crushing down my thoughts for three days,” he muttered then, sulkily.
“But what are we to do?” said Mr. Warrener. He took out his big handkerchief and began to mop his forehead, then, remembering that the day was cold, he replaced it in his pocket. “Is it snowing now?” he asked irrelevantly.
“No,” said Calladine. “It is bright and frosty, and there is no wind; the wind has dropped ever since the night that Clare went. I used to think the wind made her more restless, ‘Le vent qui vient à travers la montagne,’ you know, ‘me rendra fou.’”
“But what are we to do?” said Mr. Warrener again. They were two helpless beings, to confront such a problem. “At all events, she is safe enough with young Lovel; I believe he is a capable sort of creature; he won’t let her come to any harm.”
“Curse him,” said Calladine, resentful that the legend of Lovel’s efficiency should have percolated even to Mr. Warrener’s secluded room.
“We must go out and look for them,” said Mr. Warrener. “Come, Calladine,” he said, rousing himself, “you don’t seem able to take any action. Bestir yourself; we must go out and look for them.”
“Must we?” said Calladine without interest. “But I don’t think it’s any good, you know. I have a superstitious feeling about it; there was something intangible about Clare. I never got hold of her,—she was my joy, she tinkled about my house, in and out of my rooms, but it was like having a linnet in a cage. You know how the men go out and snare the larks under nets on the Downs; well, it was like that. She didn’t mope; no, never; but I think she was only waiting for the day when she should fly away.”
“Nonsense, nonsense,” said Mr. Warrener. “Don’t encourage such ridiculous fancies, Richard.”